


You don't wanna know what happened to my last therapist

by knightinpinkunderwear



Series: Dexter Morgan get more therapy challenge [4]
Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Brother-Sister Relationships, Childhood Trauma, Depression, Emotionally Repressed, Gen, Harry's questionable parenting, Loss of Trust, No Incest, POV Alternating, POV Third Person, Phone Calls & Telephones, Repressed Memories, Rita is mentioned, Season/Series 01, Serial Killers, Spoilers, Spoilers for Season 1, Suicidal Thoughts, Therapy, Trust Issues, Worry, but don't worry dex isn't suicidal, deb has every reason and right to be worried, debra is a reckless driver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:29:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26876716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightinpinkunderwear/pseuds/knightinpinkunderwear
Summary: Deb takes Dexter to a mental health clinic.
Relationships: Debra Morgan & Dexter Morgan, Rita Bennett/Dexter Morgan, Rudy Cooper/Debra Morgan
Series: Dexter Morgan get more therapy challenge [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1799461
Comments: 14
Kudos: 61





	You don't wanna know what happened to my last therapist

**Author's Note:**

> This one took longer to write than I thought it would. But yay! We have started the therapy process.

He was hoping that Deb would give him some more time to work his way up to being comfortable with the idea of going to therapy again.

Especially since he killed his last therapist. And only got an appointment with Dr. Merridian because he had been scoping the man out as a potential target for the Dark Passenger. 

But Deb was nothing if not stubborn. And she did have good points about the trend of his panic attacks. And the escalating risks of him hurting himself or others... again.

So, after Deb called to get herself another day off he ended up exactly where he had tried to escape, the passenger seat of Deb's car on the way to an emergency psychiatric clinic she'd found on Rita's computer. (She promised to get his car back to his apartment, but he was not allowed to drive until he saw a doctor about how he fucked up his hands and arms the night before).

What he disliked most about the situation was that Debra had a lot of good points and reasonable expectations. He was the one being unreasonable.

It was an uncomfortable reversal of their normal roles.

Deb's driving hadn't changed, despite their apparent role reversal. He'd been hoping that at least she would drive like she understood the importance of a speed limit and the general practice of decelerating before a turn.

"Did you have to drive like that?" he asked as soon as she parked, throwing off her seatbelt.

"Drive like what? That's how I always drive," his sister, the chauffeur that no one besides the main character of one of those cheesy action movies she likes would hire.

"Yeah, that's what I meant," he retorted, dry and unimpressed.

"Dex, I swear you are such an old lady sometimes," Deb rolled her eyes. great, now he wasn't just fragile, he was a fragile old lady, a fragile old lady who needed therapy. And maybe he was grumpy too. With the combination of him being the unreasonable sibling, the distinct possibility that he did in fact need therapy, and Deb's driving, he wasn't sure how he was supposed to be anything but grumpy.

"Being in a car isn't supposed to feel like being stuck in that spinning tea-cup ride at Disney," he jabbed.

"It was not that bad!" Deb defended.

"You made me throw up!"

"God, you're never gonna forgive me for that, I was eleven! You were _fourteen_!"

"I don't get motion sick unless you're in charge," he accused. 

"You and your delicate stomach!"

"It's not delicate. That's my point."

"Whatever," Deb waved a hand at him walking towards the clinic. He followed with a shrug. Debra's driving would need more than a few stern talks to get any change. 

If there was anything he didn't like more than the implication that he might just need therapy it was the looks that people gave him when he walked into a psychiatric clinic with gauze wrapped around his palms up to his elbows.

Besides the general itching discomfort of judging eyes prying for bits of vulnerability (which he was already spectacularly awful at), it was somehow worse here than in any other area in which many people watched and judged. 

He could feel the gazes on his arms, wrapped from knuckles to elbows in gauze. It made the sticking and tacky pulling discomfort of dried blood itch even more.

He had the distinct impression that most people thought that he had done it on purpose. And worse, some of them probably thought he had been trying to kill himself.

Despite what Harry had thought, Dexter had never once actually considered it. Sometimes, as a teen, he had pondered what would happen if he just died, but he'd figured the answer would be that Dad and Debra would grieve him. But he'd never actually wanted to do it.

There was that time he stood on the edge of the roof at school to see if he could ever get his heart to race like he'd felt Harry's do after he almost died. But it never did.

Dad was so upset with him, and he'd cried, told him over and over again that killing himself wouldn't solve anything.

But he never wanted to jump. He hadn't wanted to die and he'd been so confused that Harry thought he did.

He was a monster but he was a monster that wanted to survive in this world, fulfill his role in it.

"Morgan, Dexter?" An orderly called, and his skin felt itchy and uncomfortable, as if it weren't actually a part of him. He didn't think his name being spoken in a mental health facility or whatever would make him feel so uneasy. 

How could he explain to his sister that he'd be more comfortable using an alias. As far as Deb knew he was an honest guy with no reason to _want_ to lie about something like his name. 

"You want me to go back there with you?" Deb asked, giving him a worrying look. One of those looks that would turn bitter as soon as she turned to whatever she blamed for the worry. 

"No, thanks," he wasn't sure of much, but he knew that he would have more trouble with being even slightly honest if Deb was present. Dad had drilled that into him. He could lean on Deb and be there for her, but he was not allowed to talk to her about the real him. 

"Alright, I'll be right out here, just speed-dial me if you need me to bust in and kick ass,"

"Noted," he said with a tight grin.

The orderly measured his weight before leading him to sit in a sterile room with banana-yellow tile floors. 

It looked more like a Doctor's office than a therapist's, though instead of an exam table there was a small desk and three chairs. One behind the desk and the other two presumably for patients. 

The chairs were more comfortable than the ones in the waiting room. 

He had almost been expecting a couch, like at Dr. Meridian's. He wasn't sure how many therapists actually did have a couch for patients and how many simply had armchairs. 

"Mr. Dexter Morgan?" a woman asked, opening the door with a clipboard in hand.

"That's me,"

"Good, I'm Dr. Nikita Walters, you can call me Dr. Walters or Niki if it makes you more comfortable,"

He nodded, shifting his arms slightly. At least Dr. Walters wasn't staring at the gauze.

"Alright so, I'm going to run through a lot of basic questions with you but before that, I'm going to explain the confidentiality you have under the Baker Act;"

She placed the clipboard and the small file on it down.

"There is only one situation in which I can and will discuss any details of your visit or sessions without your consent; if you tell me that you plan to hurt yourself or someone else in the future. Now if you have already hurt someone in the past, I cannot share that,"

"Only active threats to harm?"

"Yes, exactly," Dr. Walters confirmed with a smile and a nod. "Now, have you ever saught out psychiatric counseling or therapy before?"

"Yes, I saw a therapist for a few days a couple of weeks ago,"

"May I ask why?"

"I, I had some relationship related issues I wanted to work out,"

"Would you like to tell me the name? You don't have to if you're not comfortable,"

"I'd rather not," he swallowed, he didn't want to explain that his last therapist was recently deceased and claimed missing. And he did not want to help anyone figure out that Dr. Meridian was out of commission because of him and an electric drill.

"Okay," Dr. Walters proceeded down the file, filling out a few lines in pen. "Why is it you are seeking psychiatric help now?"

"I've been having panic attacks,"

"Any past of abuse?"

"No,"

"Can you tell me more about these attacks, and what you think might be triggering them?"

"I work with Miami Metro Homicide, and I the first one happened at a crime scene, something like half a dozen dead, no bodies, just blood, it was everywhere and the _smell-_ " he started to worry his fingers, rubbing them with the blunt edge of his nails. Just some sensation to keep from letting the hotel room swallow him whole in red.

"Does blood typically bother you?"

"Never did before --I work blood spatter and it's never bothered me-- but that hotel room..."

"How did you feel?"

"Trapped and scared, I could hear a boy screaming, I saw his reflection in the blood," he wasn't consciously talking, but maybe that was the wrong way to phrase it. He wasn't thinking about what he was saying, wasn't carefully reviewing it. He was just letting the memories and the thoughts flow out. He had never really talked like that, never just said what was on his mind. Harry had drilled him too long on how dangerous honesty was for that.

"Did you know the little boy?"

"He- I was him,"

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean, I remember being him, I've never remembered anything before-..." he trailed off, thinking of times when he'd tried to remember. Because of something someone said about blood family being more real than any adoption and forgetting his birth parents was cruel. He hadn't wanted to be cruel to dead people. And he'd been so curious.

"Before what?"

"I'm adopted," he started, not used to having to explain personal things to other people. Usually, he didn't talk about anything remotely personal with people who didn't already know about his adoption. 

"-and my foster father said I was there when my family died," he finished.

"I'm sorry to hear that, how old were you?" Dr. Walters asked. He didn't really know.

"Um, two-three maybe," he fumbled, "Why is it coming back? I thought if I didn't remember it before I wouldn't now,"

"Young children in traumatic experiences can repress memories, sometimes they never remember and sometimes they do, I think that this hotel room you mentioned was similar to the event you blocked out,"

Similar to the event? No.

It couldn't be.

"No! Harry said it was an accident, he wouldn't lie to me-" he cut himself off. Harry _did_ lie to him. About Joe Driscoll. How much more could Harry have lied about? Could his mother have died with enough other people for there to be blood everywhere? What kind of accident could possibly resemble...? Because it was an accident. Harry said. And Dexter didn't want to think about what could have happened if it hadn't been an accident.

"Harry?"

"My foster father," he answered, not entirely conscious of registering the question or speaking.

"Sometimes parents lie about something like this, he might've thought that the truth would have brought back these repressed memories," the psychiatrist tried to explain, it didn't make him feel any better.

Maybe Deb was right. Maybe he'd always needed therapy. Maybe Dad should have done more.

"May I ask what happened to your arms?" Dr. Walters asked, gently prodding with a soft tone that must comfort normal people.

"I broke a glass," he said sheepishly.

"And?"

"and the blood freaked me out, I tried to get it off but there was glass in my hands still, so I guess I just tore myself up until Deb, my sister, and Rita, my girlfriend, calmed me down,"

"Is this one of the panic attacks you said you had?"

"Yes," he nodded.

Deb sat in the waiting room for a length of time that should not fucking exist. It was too damn long. Dex was alone back there.

And he was already so uncomfortable with really talking to people he didn't know. And he hated hospitals. And while this wasn't one, it wasn't too fucking different either.

And as much as he tried to tell her that little sisters should not worry about their big brothers (absolute bullshit) she couldn't help but worry about him.

He'd had two panic attacks, his mom was probably killed in front of him when he was a kid. He was probably remembering all that shit and baggage and he was already bad with feelings. He'd freaked so bad the night before he'd _hurt himself_.

Normally when she was worried about something she could talk to Dex. Bounce ideas off of him. Usually, he was pretty bad at comforting her. But he tried. And the trying made it work better.

But she couldn't rant at her traumatized brother about his own trauma and shit. That would be a dick thing to do. She was trying to be a good sister, not an asswipe.

Her phone rang. A few people gave her dirty looks that she was all too happy to return.

Rudy. Oh, thank the sweet baby Jesus.

"Thank goodness you called," she answered, standing to leave so she could talk in the relative privacy of outside.

"You alright?"

"Yeah, no? I don't know? I'm at some clinic with Dex,"

"Clinic?" he asked.

"Dexter had another one of those panic attack things last night," she admitted.

"Shit!"

"Yeah," she smiled, glad the feeling was mutual, "I talked him into getting therapy and he's in with some shrink now,"

Some shrink. Debra, the fake sister had given Dexter over to the shrinks. He hoped they weren't like the ones where he grew up. He hoped they didn't poke and pry and fuck him up even more. But psychiatry had progressed so much since they were children.

"What do you think's going on?" he asked, knowing full well the truth of the situation. Though he'd hoped that Dexter would have simply liked his bloody surprise and remembered in a less frightening way. It was still his job to look after his baby brother, even if baby brother was in his mid-thirties.

"So, Dexter's adopted, and my folks took him in after his folks died,"

"Except Joe Driscoll,"

"Yeah, ...so just his mom, I guess," Debra corrected, ". . . Dexter was there when she died"

"Ouch," he winced, she was getting to be a pretty good detective. He wasn't worried about her figuring out him and his motives, but he would still need to keep an eye out. He couldn't let all his years of planning be ruined so close to the plan's fruition.

"Yeah, and I-I think she didn't die in an accident,"

"What do you mean?"

"God, Rudy, I think someone killed her," Debra sobbed into the phone, "And he's remembering it in little bits and I've never seen him so scared, and I don't want him to be alone-"

"He's not alone, he's got the both of us,"

"Thank you, you're a fucking Godsend," Debra sniffled, breathing un-evenly into the speaker. And while she didn't deserve to be Dexter's fake sister, maybe it wasn't so bad that Dexter had her to lean on. Because there was no way he'd be willing to confide in Rudy Cooper this soon.

"I'm going to ask you some more routine questions now, is that alright?" Dr. Walters asked.

"Yeah," he answered, glad to be moving on from the more personal questions about his current situation.

The questions aren't the same ones the social worker asked when he was eleven. But some of them are similar.

Has he thought of hurting himself or others in the past?

"Yes," he answered before the voice of Harry can remind him to do otherwise.

"Have you acted on those desires?"

He couldn't answer that, or could he?

"Did you hurt yourself?" Dr. Walters rephrased.

"Not intentionally, but I didn't care if I did hurt myself doing something," like the time he'd scraped up his knees in soccer practice, or when he'd

"Have you hurt other people when you wanted to?"

"I- do you mean when someone makes me angry?"

"Sure,"

"Almost, there was this bully in high school, he said things about me and my sister," it was not a lie. And besides, the people he killed, his victims, he didn't hurt them because he wanted to. He killed them because he _needed_ to. He'd needed to watch the blood flow, to let the pressure inside his head dissipate. And his victims were chosen not due to anything personal, they were chosen by the code. By killing killers he was minimizing the damage they could do.

"What happened?"

"Harry stopped me before I could," he clearly remembered being dragged away, the knife being taken from his hand, being angry and vulnerable. And Harry telling him that he'd almost got himself killed. (If not by actually getting himself killed but by giving in to his urges, giving in led to death vulnerability led to death).

"Do you think about hurting people often?"

"Not more than anyone else" he answered. Now was not the time to confess to being a serial killer. And if Deb was to believed, normal people did think of hurting others a lot. They just didn't act on it.

"Do you have a strict schedule or routine that you stick to?"

"Yes, Is that weird?" he frowned, tilting his head.

"No, it's normal for a lot of people,"

"My sister calls me a neat-freak, and I'm pretty sure I have control issues," he added on.

"It must have taken a lot to come in here, I can see that you are not very comfortable with this process," Dr. Walters said, though it seemed it might be praise of some sort.

"I'm not, I don't... like that I _need_ help, but I can't argue with Deb because she's right, I probably do," admitting it did not make it any more palatable than before. If anything he felt worse, more hollow, more empty, and wondering what was even the point of trying to get better. It wasn't like he was really human.

There was no cure for the monster inside of him, so why bother trying to treat the thing that probably let it in? The damage was already done. And Harry already taught him the only form of damage control that seemed to work.

He answered a few more questions about habits, intrusive thoughts, privacy, and control and Dr. Walters finally let him escape.

His eyes stung a little like he'd stayed awake too late. And other than that he just felt numb. With an awareness of the jagged broken pieces inside of him and that somehow these pieces were making him bleed, but he either couldn't feel the pain or he didn't care anymore.

He wasn't sure which was worse. Actually feeling his broken-ness or the all-consuming emptiness it left in its wake.

**Author's Note:**

> I would very much appreciate a comment or two.


End file.
